Hunter/Gatherer

Why isn't "hero" a job anymore? I would save princesses all damn day.

Unless I get accepted to the University, (and I probably won't), I will be waiting for the next two years to begin my actual nursing school. It's not a sure thing. I might get in. But if I were a betting man I'd say no.

I am attempting to enter what they call the "second degree option," a program specifically suited for art school burnouts who want to start a new career but don't want to take English Composition I again. This means I can transfer my credits from my first trip through college and just jump right in with the juniors (and by jump right in I mean I had to take 16 credits worth of biology courses). This is great because it means I can get a bachelor's degree in the same amount of time it would take to get an associates degree at my current school (and that's not counting the two year waiting list). Unfortunately, it looks pretty bleak.

The problem is with my grades. You see, I wasn't always a straight-A student. I got a fair amount of B's, and there were even a few C's my freshman year while I adjusted to life out on my own, juggling homework and copious amounts of drugs.

C's were never acceptable to my parents. After my first grade card the following conversation took place:

Mom: "You shouldn't be getting a C in Art History."
Me: "What could my grades in Art History matter in the long run?"
Mom: "You never know. You might not always want to be an artist."
Me: "I would rather die than not be an artist!"

I did eventually learn to be a good student. At some point I just got sick of being told my art was shitty and I started spending more time on it. As for the history classes, I just stopped taking them.

My cumulative GPA at the time of my application will be just above a 3.6. This isn't terrible, but the fact is it might not be good enough. A lot of it will depend on who else applies. They only accept 8 people per semester to do the second degree option. If I'm not one of them, I'm not exactly going to be surprised. And it's nice to know that so many of the people entering my field are huge nerds. Of course, what this means really is if I don't get in I will have two years to kill, and I have started to plan accordingly.

...

Job hunting is one of my least favorite activities. There is something so humbling and artificial about all of it, from the way I feel I am supposed to dress* to the way I am suddenly forced to answer questions that don't have right answers. At these moments, it is as though I am watching myself on a video and I can see what a jerk I am being made to look like. It all feels like a test to see if I will play along. Usually I do, but I come across as so awkward or milquetoast that I wouldn't hire me either. And there are the times when I decide to inject a little humor, you know, to liven up the interview process. I've heard that you want them to remember you when you walk out the door, but I'm not clear on how to accomplish this. I'm not very tall. I have ordinary clothing. I don't wear cologne. The only thing I really have is a sense of humor, one which I have learned through trial and error is quite strange.

The thing is, even though I know this, I can't always contain it. Sometimes, when I'm put in a situation that calls for seriousness and good manners, I can feel something diabolical swelling inside my chest, like an hysterical laugh in the middle of church, and I say something I don't fully understand. Once I was asked what type of animal I would be. In a low growl, I said I was an animal. Another time I was asked which position I was applying for, at a restaurant mind you.

I answered, "I don't know... Bounty Hunter?" The guy look at me like I was crazy, and I think he was onto something. He repeated the words Bounty Hunter very matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," I said, my initial enthusiasm quickly receding. "Do you have those? No? Okay then, cashier I guess." As I left I thought I could hear the shredding of an application.

There was a time when finding a job was extremely simple. I would go to a place where a girl I liked worked. I would fill out an application, which probably didn't take long because I had no prior experience. I would get an interview, to which I would dress nicer than I ever would again for that job, and suddenly I would be offered a job. At one point I had a perfect track record—I had been hired for every job I'd ever interviewed for, and I don't remember doing anything special to prepare besides laying off the weed for the afternoon. I can't figure out what I've lost in the time between when I was a greasy high-schooler with no goals and now, where I have had a dozen jobs, earned two college degrees, and I don't wear sandals to the interview. Whatever it is, they all pick up on it immediately. I never get offered jobs anymore.

To date, I've applied four times to Whole Foods, the stupid jerks. I go to the store and I can see who they're hiring instead of me. Usually it's more teenagers with filthy hair and no experience. One thing I have noticed is that their employees tend to have odd names, like Maverick, or Yessiree, which is why on my most recent application I wrote John "D'Brickashaw" Photos.

Based on a bit of advice from a former employee, I also tried to pull a fast one.

The application is an annoyingly complex process that has to be done entirely online. In a way this is good because I can not get the job without even leaving the house. But there is also no way to tell if anyone is actually reading my résumé. With this in mind, I put on a tie, drove to the store, and asked to speak to the manager. I calmly explained that when I had pasted my info in the text box it looked all jacked up and silly, and here was a copy of my properly formatted résumé on ivory stock, to which they replied, "Let me get the Team Leader."

Andrea, the Team Leader, was friendly, but I could also see she felt like I was either too stupid to use the online form or too pushy to follow the rules. She asked why I wanted to work at Whole Foods, like it's a lifestyle decision or something. I told her I loved Whole Foods, particularly the bakery to which I was applying, and in fact had made a pie only the night before.

"What kind?" she asked.

For some reason when I said "apple" it sounded so obvious that she probably thought I was lying about baking it in the first place. She thanked me for coming in.

If I don't get hired at a grocery store it won't be so bad. What I'm really hoping for is a job at a hospital. Unfortunately, even the most rudimentary positions require either some kind of certification or prior experience, and this means yet more school. Still, I applied for 7 different jobs at various hospitals—everything from housekeeping to outpatient aide. I even wrote a nice cover letter outlining my plan to become a nurse and my desire to work in the field. I felt I was convincingly assertive yet humble and eager. I made it clear that I would accept any position offered, but still no word.

I've also applied to a local coffee chain, a national coffee chain, and the hippie grocery store where you have to be a "member." Frankly, I don't see how any of these places are going to hire me either. Even as I fill in my work history, I can see that there is nothing I'm putting down that is going to convince the manager I would make a good barista since I haven't already been a barista.

Some of the applications ask more personal questions, such as "are there any accomplishments or awards you would like us to consider?" What on Earth do people write? If they'd truly achieved something worthwhile they probably wouldn't be looking for work at a coffee shop. And even if they have, how would it carry over?

I could write, "I once beat The Legend of Zelda in one sitting. I also defeated Contra** without losing a single man. And I can jump over the hood of a car." I honestly think these things are impressive, but they aren't going to demonstrate my prowess with giving people correct change, as though people use cash anymore.

Alas, I'm back to surfing Craig's List, but that is truly a dismal place these days. I did find a job post titled "Stable Help" that required "some experience with horses," this way the person they hire won't be frightened by the amount of poop. I never really wanted to muck stalls again, having done that throughout highschool for my pony, Thunder. I taught at one of the most prestigious art schools in the country. I earned a master's degree when I was 23. But I guess you can't escape your past. I'm just a shit-shoveler after all. I'll probably call tomorrow.


* Actually for someone who has never held a job that required ties, I own a pretty solid collection. I just feel stupid walking into Starbucks dressed up and holding my application. It's so obvious to everyone that you are hoping to get hired at Starbucks. It's like asking someone out in public, and they say they have to think about it.

** That means I could beat it without using UUDDLRLRBASelectStart, suckas! Interesting side note: my little brother once went Trick or Treating as a "Contra Man" (his words, which he had to repeat at every door). He wasn't allowed to go shirtless though, which is fine because he probably weighed 60 pounds. Instead he carried a laser gun, wore a red bandana, and a beige top. I went as a football player, which was also met with some confusion when it was pointed out that there was no team called the Michigan Rams.

Part of the Problem

Hotel Art: The Reason I Don't Remember My Dreams Anymore

Whole Foods will not call me back. I really want to work there. They are my top choice. But they won't call me back. I don't know why. I would make an excellent nonchalant cashier. And just try to forget your canvas bag and ask me for paper. I can cultivate the judgy air that is part of organic shopping without even looking you in your Earth-hating face. Oh, I want to work there so bad and they won't let me!

I am sure that everyone is clinging to their grocer positions in a manner that would have been unthinkable at any other time in my life. I am also sure that they will call me eventually, right? It's a big giant grocery store. It's got to have some turnover. One day you wake up and you realize that you just don't want to cut a bunch of sample-size pita triangles anymore. Well, when that day comes, I'll be waiting. I like triangles – so stable and proud. Alas, I have been without job for almost 2 months now (a personal best) and I am beginning to feel the so-called pinch.

In the meantime, I check Craig's List every morning, but it's really not very encouraging. There is (maybe) 1 job every two weeks that I would consider, and it usually isn't part-time. There are, however, a ton of scammers who reply promptly, while your hopes are still up, and try to get you to fill out an "online application" involving your home address and phone numbers. So far, I have had this happen to me 3 times out of the 5 total jobs I have inquired about, proving once and for all that I am a total sucker. In my defense, I am getting better at spotting them. For instance, if the salary is listed as a range, especially if that range is $31,000-116,000 for a veterinary assistant position, it is a scam. Another way to spot a scam is that it will be the only ad you see that day without egregious misspellings and broken English. At this point, I'm thinking of just buying my own brown apron and showing up at Whole Foods unannounced.

In order to keep out of the poor house, I have a new policy of accepting hardscrabble jobs when they present themselves, no matter what the job is. Two weeks ago I literally shoveled wet sand into sandboxes. I received no less than $8 for every hour I did this. Wet sand is easily as heavy as they say, but I managed to shovel $32 worth.

Finally, this week, I had a real paying gig doing some art installation. The venue? It was the newly renovated Sheraton Hotel in Albuquerque. And, by golly, this was some Hotel Art I was hanging.

The whole situation was pretty perverse. I, a self-proclaimed artist, spent two full days hanging up cheap canvas prints by some other artist that have been stretched to look like paintings but in no way resemble paintings except that they have signatures, though the signatures were also part of the print and not actual signatures.

A few thoughts about this:

– I am sure that these works cost many many more times than (a) what I was being paid to hang them and (b) what I could hope to sell my art objects for.

– My art must really be bad.

– By taking this job, I effectively helped prevent the sale of about 30 works by you maybe, and helped promote the career of artists who paint rectangles of varying stripey color.

– If there was a doubt as to whether art was dead, I think I have the answer – robots make the art now. Ironically, artists will always have jobs as long as the normals don't figure out what a 60" sight-lines is.

...

I hung about 30 of these objets d'art, which vary in size from the 12" square to the 60" nightmare, all of which were attached with security hangers* because the designer (the person who hired me, and who purchased the art) kept saying how people would steal anything from a hotel.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that? That's my enormous print of a painting of an orange rectangle inside of a brown rectangle, that I stole."

"Awesome!"

As I was returning to the hotel from Fuddrucker's (a truly strange restaurant indeed) I realized that the economic depression we are in is just a big lie. It's on the news, and some people have actually lost their jobs, but no one is even thinking about what is happening, or what might yet happen. The designer, nice lady though she was, makes her living by flying to various hotels and picking out stuff for the hotels to buy. She is burning a hole in the ozone layer, and probably making six figures to do it, so that people will come to the Sheraton and not notice that it is extremely ugly. We will only truly be in a depression when we no longer need interior designers.

While I was there I also met the lighting designer, the drink designer, and Carl. While the first two are fairly straightforward in their roles, Carl was a little more difficult to pin down.

For one thing, Carl didn't like me. I have no idea why, but from the moment I showed up he just didn't want anything to do with me. From what I could gather, Carl's job was to:

1. Avoid me
2. If I could not be avoided, then be curt with me
3. Go around to all the work I've already done and say that there is something wrong with it

The designer told me that Carl flies to Phoenix every weekend because he lives in Phoenix. He only works in Albuquerque. His job, when I am not on the premises, is to hang the artwork and signage... My only thought is that if they are paying him to fly in from Phoenix to do that, then the $15/hour I charged to do it in town must have just spoiled the whole ruse.

In closing, I do not think that I will pursue a career in hotel art installation. It was actually a lot of work (though I am seeing that I surely could have charged more) and not really something I can be proud of. It's the equivalent of writing a math problem on the chalkboard and then covering it with a big colored sail. No one will ever see the work I did; they won't even see the art that's hung in its place. It's all the exact right amount of color and abstraction so that you will never stop to look at it for even a second. It's all just an elaborate trick to keep you moving without feeling lost. Now, too late, I wish I had left a message behind one of the works.

"Hello. My name is John. I was 30 years old. I was poor and going to school to become a Nurse when I hung this. I worked for two days and hung all the artwork in this hall. I lived in the United States at the turn of the 21st century. At that time, our economy was going bad, and we were at war. People had gotten to be very strange and mean in the course of my lifetime. We stopped doing a lot of things that I enjoy, like writing letters, or learning how to fix things ourselves. I kept trying to do things that I thought would help. I rode my bike everywhere and learned to cook. I recycled, or I just didn't buy new things. I was scared sometimes, but I tried not to show it.

If you are reading this, I wonder if there is a United States anymore. I wonder if you are tearing this building down, or if you are looting it, or if you are an employee of a hotel that took over Sheraton Hotels and you are just renovating once again.

I just wanted to tell you that during my life we made a lot of mistakes and we lied and embezzled and stole from our neighbors and we hung a lot of ugly stupid things on the walls and we covered the land with plastic that will never go away and we made the empty overly full. And even though that happened, it wasn't all terrible. I had a wife, and a family. I had friends and pets. I played music and took pictures and went for walks. I had good memories.

I don't know if this means anything to you now, or if you think I am a huge sap, but I just wanted to tell you so that you would know. I just wanted it to be in writing so that there would be proof. As of February 20, 2009, love existed. For you, dear reader, I can only hope that it still does."


* Security hangers involve a t-shaped screw that, when turned, locks to a bracket on the back of the frame making it almost impossible to do the math correctly on your first attempt at hanging it.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Our luxury sidewalk. Note the dirt pile across the alley. Yeah, you can't walk on that.

I no longer own a car. It is a temporary move, as we fully intend to get a nice truck when we have saved up. But for now, we are unable to pick you up at the airport, so please delay travel plans.

We no longer have a car because we very suddenly sold our Volvo to a man named José. He called within hours of its debut, even though we posted it on Craig's List as "for parts." Even though we told him everything that was wrong with it. Even though we warmed it up for half an hour and it wouldn't shift out of first. He still wanted it.

We asked a measly $600, hoping to get $500, but really just not wanting to have to pay to have it towed away. We needed to sell it in a hurry for two reasons:

1. We received a ticket for having expired tags.†
2. We received a ticket for parking in our "driveway," which is apparently not a legal parking space because it crosses the sidewalk.†† Thus we had to park in the street, which made our expired tags very easy to see.

As I mentioned in a previous post (Birthday Blowout), I am not a good haggler. Well, I could learn a thing or two from José. Perhaps he could sense the urgency of our situation. At any rate, he never once kicked the tires. Instead he made me carefully repeat exactly what was wrong with it a few different times, and then asked how much it would be to get a new transmission. When I told him a mechanic quoted me $2900, he whistled. "Is expensive."

It all put me in a very remorseful position, as though we really had no business asking for any money at all. Graciously, he offered $400. What a good guy.

Darby was unmoved. "450," she shot back. After a beat, José agreed.

I admit, I was impressed. Darby had heard the exact same angles as I had, and still had the wherewithal to net an extra 12.5% on the bid. As he drove off to get the money, I felt very proud of my wife. No one could just show up and screw my family out of a deal. We were smarter, and tougher than that. We didn't need his money. We had tons of other people who couldn't wait to see our '95 Volvo sedan if it was still available. We made the terms here. $400? Who did he think he was anyway?

After an hour, some of the post-haggle high wearing off, I was pretty sure he wasn't coming back. But come back he did, and José still had another trick up his sleeve.

"I'm sorry for bad news," he started. Bad news? "The ATM would only give 400," he explained. "I tried to get more at gas station, but they would only give 20... is ok?"

"Yes. Is ok."

Here is the part where I tell you that not owning a car is the greatest thing that ever happened to me, that I have been liberated from myriad municipal fees and the crushing price of petrol, that my carbon footprint is now smaller than my calf muscles. It is what I've wanted and threatened to do for years. Instead, I have to say that I am a little freaked out, and this is because there is no longer even the option to drive. I am realizing that there is a big difference between choosing to bike and having to bike.†††

There is also a weird (and absolutely unforeseen) social aspect to it, and that is that I feel like I have regressed slightly. Owning a car is a symbol of independence.†††† It is part of being an adult, and being able to go where you please, when you please. It is a symbol of financial stability, and perhaps even mental stability. There is even a safety issue to owning a car. Without one, I will have to bike or bum a ride to the ER the next time I chop the tip of my thumb off,††††† like a common teenager.

Sadly, it may be a while before we can save up to buy another auto. For now we will just have to wait out the thunderstorms and double up our errands. Biking to the store is not always the most convenient way to spend an evening, but it's kind of romantic–the fiery sunsets burning over the west mesa as we return home, our backs bent under the heft of fresh produce.

Despite my dreams of being totally self-sufficient, I know we will have to own a car again. We have even begun trolling Craig's List, getting an idea about the market values, avoiding the ads signed José.



† Our tags had been expired for some time (as in they still said "Land of Lincoln") and we didn't want to pay to get new ones because we don't really drive, AND we were pretty sure that we would fail our emissions test anyway (for the record, we still consider ourselves "environmentalists").

†† It is the only sidewalk for several blocks in either direction. It is our own personal sidewalk.

††† I swear to god, these revelations I have while blogging just seem so obvious once I write them down.

†††† Despite the fact that the freeway is our country's only viable transportation superstructure, one that relies hopelessly on imported and finite resources.

††††† About a month before I dislocated my finger, I had an accident while chopping celery. What an asshole.